I slam the door, insert 14 quarters, and pick up my basket.
Doing my laundry is single handedly the constant reminder that I am not at “home”. I put my laundry basket into the back seat of my car, and pull out my lap top. Sitting outside the Laundromat, I wait for this weeks wardrobe to wash, as I type up the latest post on The GraduatesGuide, or read through my training materials for my internship. I don’t like to do one thing for too long, so sometimes I do both.
I’m settling in. I have a routine. I have a life. I am living each day with no thought to whether or not I’m doing “the right thing.”I know that I am. My internal instincts tell me that everything is exactly as it should be.
I’ve dealt with this past weeks nervous break down about being single, and what I’ve realized is that relationships, just like life, will happen when they happen. If they don’t. they weren’t meant to.
I’m a little annoyed with myself really. Why would I worry about my relationship status? Why would I push myself into commiting to someone that A: doesn’t want to be with me right now, or B: I don’t want to be with, or C: All of the above.
It makes no sense.
I have no free time. During the drive to and from my jobs, I call my mother. I have something to do every night when I get off work. I feel overwhelmed and scatterbrained 95% of the time… And I love it. I don’t want to add anything to this pressure unnecessarily, but I’ve got a lot on my plate that I enjoy. That’s where my focus is.
My pillow and I have gotten really close. I find it nice having something to depend on. Everyday when I come home, there she is waiting. Convenient right? That’s more than enough for right now.
I’ve found that the people I get along with the best are usually one or two generations older than me. I was raised differently than my generation, and therefore I possess a lot of habits and desires that most people my age don’t. I look at my mother, the woman who in her twenty’s could make the football team swoon, and I see where she gave up. Somewhere during her mid-twenties, she let her dreams go, and found herself back-tracking in her early thirties.
I watch my father, who spent twenty years chasing smoke, and I ask myself “do you want to be that way?”
The answer is no.
I don’t have to be the best. I don’t have to be rich. I don’t have to be famous. I don’t have to be in a relationship. What I have to be is myself. What I want to be is happy. Every decision that I make in my life will guide me in both of those directions. Those two things are synonymous.
We choose our mentality.
We choose how we want to act. We choose how we want to respond, and portray ourselves. We choose the affect we want to have on the world around us. We choose the affect that people have on us.
I love people. My favorites are those who can create something out of nothing, whether it be an idea, a song, a film, a picture, a movement, a portrait or peace. I love creative people. I also love people who love themselves. Loving yourself is hard. It’s even more difficult to do when our society belts out around us that we’re inadequate.
Let me ask you this though, “Who are they? What do they know?”
These people, did they write the book of “Who and what to be: Do not stray and do not falter.”? No. There is no such thing. And if there was, do you really think it would say “5’4, great hair, rock hard abs, and perfect.”
Now if that is a spot-on description of you, stop reading my blog. Clearly you don’t need to hear a word that I’m saying. If you don’t fit this description, then welcome to the club. Very few do.
I’m southern. I’ve embraced it. The good and the bad.
I have an accent. I like to get my hands dirty. I feel better after long hard physical labor, than I do after 8 hours shuffling papers on a desk. I like sunshine. Especially when it leaves hints of a farmers tan. I say “Y’all, Sir, Ma’am, and Darlin.” I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I know what a 12 gauge is. (Hint: It’s not an ear ring.)
I’m not redneck. I know that the fork goes on the left, and the spoon and knife on the right. Sometimes I like to feel pretty in dresses. I speak eloquently when being addressed in a formal situation. I have a firm handshake, thanks to my father, and courage that I learned from my mother.
Neither of them were really certain how to raise a lesbian, so they raised me a little like a son. I can lift fifty pound bails of hay by grass string above my head, and toss them ten feet across a barbed wire fence in one swift motion. I was also taught to open a door for a woman, elders (and sometimes even a man, unless they take they initiative first.) It’s polite. I was taught never to hit a woman, and to treat her like I would my mother or sister. This has never been an issue. I did have to refrain once from hitting a guy in a bar who poured a beer down my back because I was gay.
I am confident in myself and proud of where I’ve come from. I was told recently by a colleague that “She will always require her assistants havesouthern accents.”
See Johnny Cash? I’m making a good impression for us after all.
I’m not just a southerner. I’m not just a lesbian. I’m an artist. A writer. A photographer. A poet. A daughter. A friend.
I’m a romantic. A go-getter. A dreamer. A do-er.
I’m an influence. A sister. A mentor. A mentee. An assistant. A jokester.
I’m a lover. A fighter (in the mental sense).
I am me. Nothing less. Nothing more.
Who are you?
P.s. When I went to check the dryer, my clothes were done. The dryer still had another 36 minutes on it, and the latino man next to me had just begun placing his clothes into another dryer. He was standing next to his wife. They had more than a few kids running around them. With four or five loads next to him, I decided to offer him my dryer. He said thank you, and his wife followed him with a "God Bless."
Now even if you're not "religious", you can't tell me that reaction, that moment in life wouldn't make you feel good. When you make others happy, you begn to feel happy as well. It's just food for thought.